Behavioural Theory Case One
by gaffer42
Summary: Reality can be painfully subjective. When everything is taken, what remains?


_Thanks to everyone who reviewed The Lull - I'm sorry about the formatting problem with the first few chapters._

_Usual disclaimer applies - don't own them, wish I did. Hope you enjoy!_

It took all his determination, then, to turn his back and begin the slow walk back to the Stargate.

The ZPM, so small for what it represented, freedom – going home – for the people on Atlantis, rode in the backpack. He'd taken everything he might need from the – the bodies – food, water, extra ammo. And dogtags. Two dogtags and one bracelet, a small bundle of materials in his pocket. He found himself running the chain, the leather, the smoothness through his fingers like his grandmother had counted her rosary. It was faith for her. Desperate sorrow for him.

His head throbbed where the projectile had creased him. Right along the top of his right ear. It must have looked like a clean shot – he presumed he'd dropped like a rock. It wasn't too hard to imagine what had happened next. They would have stood the attackers off – they must have been surrounded, in the twilight, or they would have grabbed him and made a run for it. At some point the numbers would have been overwhelming.

He'd woken under a heavy weight. It had been Sheppard. At first he'd panicked, squirming out from the body in terror, but he'd seen clearly, in the early morning light, the impacts on his friend's back, and realized the Major had fallen protecting him. He hadn't to look far for Ford – lying against a tree, a scowl on his face – or Teyla – on her side, knife in her hand. The fluid on the knife had been a light pink. Not human blood. She'd died fighting.

He presumed that was the way she would have wanted to go. How they all would have wanted to go.

It was cold comfort.

He remembered moving them, then, dragging his friends to lie together, hands composed, faces as peaceful as they would ever be, and he remembered crying while doing it.

And the sudden desire to simply lie down beside them, take the gun, set it against his temple, pull the trigger.

It was the years of self-discipline that saved him, then. The Army and Navy had their ways of teaching tenaciousness – it was called boot camp – but for scientists the years writing theses, studying, defending ideas had much the same effect. The responsibility he had to the others on Atlantis – Weir, Beckett, even Zelenka – kept him from taking the easy way out.

And so he had bound his head, and drank, and ate, and took a sighting, and plotted his eight mile trek through the pathless jungle. He'd said his farewells to the people who he had known for only a few months, only a lifetime, and mustered his strength, wiped his eyes.

And turned his back.

The heat was oppressive, and the ZPM was getting heavier with each step. The crashed puddlejumper had a few more items of use, but he didn't want to take more than he had to.

Bugs buzzed in his ears, trying to bite, unable to because of Ford's cap. He'd draped a hanky over his head and down his neck, Foreign Legion style. It kept the insects from him, more or less. And then he came to the gully. The canyon.

It stretched as far as he could see either way, a narrow crack in the earth perhaps fifteen feet across. It dropped, though, without hand holds, for as far as the filtered sunlight would reach. It looked impassable.

He sat and stared and drank and thought, finding the presence of a problem to solve brought his thoughts out of the drone of mourning that had accompanied each step of his trek. Too far to jump. He dropped a stone, listened. It hit. He did the math. At least seventy feet deep, and who knew what lurked down there.

He inventoried his supplies. Rope, but not enough. Teyla's hunting knife. A small axe that Ford brought on any mission that showed signs of being more than in-and-out. For tinder, he'd said once. Four clips of ammo for the P40 and several more for the pistol he carried.

And the answer came from an unexpected source.

It had been a month ago, more or less, and he'd been working steadily in his lab on the latest item – funny he couldn't remember what it was – but he remembered the team plus Carson descending on him and refusing to leave without him. They had wheedled and cajoled him until he put the item down and followed them, protesting mightily until Sheppard had whacked him on the shoulder in a friendly way and told him to shut up already, he worked too hard and he needed a break, a good movie.

A classic. King Kong.

And the last of the popcorn, Ford added, thinking that would sweeten the deal, not realizing (or maybe the Leftenant had, in retrospect) that much of his protesting was simply habit and the invitation would not have been turned down. Even if there had been no popcorn. He had been touched they'd thought of him, and had made the effort. If he'd made it too easy, though, he reasoned, they'd think he was sick or something.

He smiled wryly at the memory. But it was something in the movie he remembered, the log roll.

Standing, he started hiking to his left up the rim. Fifteen minutes yielded nothing, so he turned and started back the other way. He stopped at his original spot and sighted. He'd come almost two miles, in a direct line to the power signature that was the Stargate. He sighed a bit and headed right. He had no intention of getting off course more than he had to.

And five minutes down, he found a likely tree. It looked dead, it stood near the edge, and it had to be thirty feet tall.

The axe wasn't large enough. He knew that just looking at it. But the P90 – hadn't Ford said once it would cut down a tree? He had to hit it just right.

Fortunately, he was a good shot.

He fired, seeing the wood shred and fly, feeling the splinters hitting his face. He moved back a few steps and fired again.

There was a creak, and the tree shifted towards the canyon. He stopped, ran to the far side of it and pushed. With a tremendous crack, it began to fall and he jumped back, knowing not to get caught by the kickback.

The tree created a crude, but serviceable bridge.

Panting, he wiped sweat from his face and had another drink. Water was best kept in your body, Sheppard had told him. Don't ration water.

And then he heard the shouting.

It was behind and to his left, and was getting closer. He capped the canteen and stowed it, then stood on the butt end of the tree and tried to jig it. It was stable. The branches were offset and he couldn't really sit on it to scoot across, but they served as aids to balance. He concentrated hard and started, was a third, halfway, two thirds across, and off on the other side almost before he realized it. He stepped off and turned, and saw his pursuers break cover on the other side, perhaps half a mile away.

His bridge had become a liability. The end on his side was fairly limber and thin, but still heavy and he spent several seconds trying to shift it before realizing he couldn't. He raised the P90 again. A short squirt topped the tree and it fell.

The shouting was now interspersed with shots – the pursuers had presumed, logically, that he was firing at them. They were getting his range – the leaves around him were rattling with near misses – and he turned and ran for the forest edge.

The shouting had diminished in the distance when he finally slowed, paused, listened. No immediate signs of pursuit. He slumped against a tree, impressed with himself for a moment – all the time hiking the halls of Atlantis had improved his stamina immeasurably. He reached for the P90 to check the clip, but something stung and he stopped.

He'd felt something tug at the back of one arm during his run, and presumed it was a tree branch. It hadn't been. His right hand was bloody, and a bit of inspection showed he'd caught another projectile in his lower arm. It had an entry wound, but no exit.

He sighed, pulled out the first aid kit and wrapped it, not bothering to try to go under the jacket. If he made it out, he reasoned, Carson could fix him up and tend to any infection. If he didn't, it wouldn't make any difference anyway. Right now he had to get back on track. He was losing the light.

Another three miles had been covered, uneventfully for the most part, by the time it got too dark to travel. Recalling his basic survival courses, he searched for and found a tree with several forking branches that he could wedge himself into, climbed it, settled himself. The night animals, who had fallen silent when he began to climb, gradually took up their chorus again. To that odd tune, he – surprisingly – slept.

His arm woke him. That, and the rain. It was a heavy downpour, and it soaked him to the skin even in the shelter of the tree. It lasted only a short time, but when it passed a cold wind sprang up and leached the heat from his body. He huddled for a time, shivering and miserable, but when the wind showed no sign of stopping he realized hypothermia was a very real threat.

He listened as well as he could, but there didn't seem to be any movement around him other than the leaves. The night creatures were still squeaking and chirping, which he took to mean there were no other, larger creatures around, and he shinnied down the tree. They stopped, naturally. And as a gust of wind came from behind him, he caught the scent of smoke.

They were still following him. They'd camped, obviously, but they were not giving up.

Fortunately, the screen on his tracker didn't glow that brightly. He set himself on the direction and, using a stick as an aid, much as a blind person uses a white cane, he set out again.

Early morning. He stopped briefly, to eat an energy bar and take care of certain necessities. He wrapped his arm again, it was still bleeding slowly and was something he'd need to watch. He'd heard blood spoor was easy to spot. He dragged a branch over where he'd relieved himself and threw it as far in the direction opposite to his intended path as possible, hoping if there were tracking animals in the group it would throw them off and buy him a few more minutes.

He'd been travelling steadily, trying to ignore the small troll with an anvil that seemed to be residing in his skull now. His head throbbed. His arm throbbed. And he kept almost feeling something – almost hearing something. Head injuries were like that, he knew, but he could have sworn once, in the pre-dawn, he'd felt a gentle push and heard a "that way" whispered in his ear. It had felt like a firm hand, sounded like John, and for a moment he'd turned towards it, a smile beginning – but of course, there was nothing.

The odd thing was, when he'd stopped and checked his readings moments later, he had, in fact, drifted off course.

Full morning, now, and he had heard and seen nothing of his pursuers for several hours. The going seemed to be a bit easier, too, but it was offset by the fact he was slowing. The wind had stopped, though, and his head was a bit better.

The only thing that still truly pained him, physically, was the arm – it felt like the projectile had shifted and every time he used his hand there was a deeply unpleasant scraping sort of feeling and his fingers went numb. The blood was still oozing, too, and he applied another layer of gauze, this time wrapping his arm with a large leaf to try to keep it from dripping. There was a cotton-wool feeling in his mouth that wouldn't go away no matter what, and he knew between the head injury and the arm he had lost more blood than was likely good for him.

He took another reading. Still going in the right direction.

Trekking doggedly on, though, his mood had turned black again. His memory was full of his friends, and for every pleasant thought he had, the grim job he had taken on – was it only twenty four hours ago – would over-ride it. Sheppard had protected him. It was a humbling feeling - John had deliberately taken bullets for him. Teyla, Ford, and Sheppard had stood and fought and died rather than leave him.

And he knew, even in his despair, that he couldn't fail them, couldn't let their sacrifice be a vain one. "Teyla." he muttered. The name fell into the humid air like a caress, and he almost felt a warm hand brush his cheek. "Aiden." and he could swear a firm hand clasped his. "John." he sighed, and it was like a strong arm circled his shoulders, lending him strength.

The Pegasus galaxy was a wonderous place. He had never believed in ghosts, but for a moment he felt – really felt – the presence of his teammates, his friends. He knew it might just as easily be the fatigue, head injury, loss of blood, but he preferred to believe the three people he had come to trust were staying by him, helping him.

There wasn't far to go. He muttered as he walked. Names, just names, three of them, over and over as a catechism against anguish.

He broke the treeline and almost didn't realize it – someone placed a hand against his chest and stopped him. He had given up trying to explain it – his friends were there, and that was all there was to it. He came out of his fugue and slipped back into the trees, scanning the area.

_It's an ideal place for an ambush. _

The thought was clear, and he didn't know anymore if he'd thought it or someone had said it in his mind. He crouched, and surveyed the area. There was a set of ruins not far from the overgrown DHD. It would take some time to pull the vines off and he'd be exposed when he dialled.

_Unless you used the smoke bombs_.

OK, that was definitely not his thought. He didn't even know about the smoke bombs. He took off Ford's pack, opening the bottom pocket and seeing four small silver tubes with buttons on one end and vents on the side.

"Party favours." he said softly. "Thanks."

_Anytime._

He pulled them out, held them in his right hand. He wasn't the best thrower with his left, but he'd have to make do. He stood, feeling like he'd missed something, an opportunity…of course.

"I'll do my best." he said to the shadows, all pretence dropped. "I miss you. It's so hard without you."

_We're with you. We'll always be with you. _

He wiped his eyes again, and triggered the bomb, and set his feet, and tossed.

The four bombs got him all the way to the DHD – there had been an ambush, he heard shots spanging off the rock around him, ricocheting in a very disturbing manner, and he finished dialing and heard the gate open.

And realized he had no bombs left. He would have to make a run for it.

He tugged off the pack, holding it in one hand, and sprinted, took the stairs two at a time, and was making it…

and a white hot skewer drove into his back, dropping him, dropping the pack, and he lay curled on his side staring at his pursuers. One split off to the DHD, plainly intending to close the gate, and he rolled himself over, wondering fleetingly why his legs weren't working, and seized the pack by a strap, dragging himself to the event horizon and pushing it through fractions of a second before the gate closed again.

He lay on his back, then, and he could see them around him – not the others, but Aiden, John, Teyla, and they were smiling at him, holding him, and he didn't even feel the shot that stopped his heart.

Blackness.

Deep and soft.

He felt comfortable, half asleep, warm, and it took him back to one of his earliest memories of waking up on his grandparents farm and the summer holiday stretching before him…

and voices.

He'd kind of expected them.

He remembered hearing them before. And in a sudden flash it came to him, the trek through the jungle, the ghosts of his friends, and he opened his eyes.

Ford and Sheppard were examining something sort of silvery, sitting on his left side. Teyla was on his right side, watching them, one warm hand resting on his shoulder. She felt him wake.

"Rodney?" she said gently. Ford and Sheppard turned their attention to the bed, artefact disregarded.

"It's us, Rodney." Ford said. "We're not dead."

He blinked at that and looked at the Major.

"It was a test, McKay." Sheppard said, and his good humour seemed a little forced. "There was an observer, but as soon as you'd finished your part, he vanished." He held up the item. It was of a size to curve around the head from ear to ear. "There were little – I guess probes – that held this on you. We tried to take it off but it hurt you. And then once that guy shot you it fell off on it's own."

He listened with half an ear, but his attention was on the three people who ringed him, drinking in the sight of them. His lack of response stopped Sheppard and he set the headset down on the bed, leaning forward and taking both Rodney's hands in his.

"It didn't happen, Rodney. It was some sort of machine, testing you for who knows what, but it's over now. I am so sorry you had to go through that."

Seeing was believing, it seemed. And again with the crying, he thought exasperatedly, but he wasn't the only one a bit misty around the edges. Ford rubbed his eyes.

"We had a couple tests, too." he said. "And the second one was getting past an unbreakable immovable glass wall to get to you." He smiled at Teyla. "And for that we have Teyla to thank – if you can't go thorough, go around."

She nodded slightly, smiling in return.

"The Major realized that you were our banana." the Lieutenant continued.

"Say what?" he managed.

"You know, the behavioural tests – monkey on one side of an obstacle, visible banana on the other." Sheppard said easily.

"Exactly." Ford said. "But once we figured out what this whole setup was for, it was – well, maybe not easy, but not a really big deal. And they left the three of us together."

"Our only worry was that we were unable to release you from that – headset." Teyla added. "However, we discovered we could speak to you and you would respond to us, though evidently we appeared as spectres."

"You...saw what happened?" his voice tailed off, raspy, and he accepted Teyla's help to sit, sipping from a canteen John handed him.

"It was like a projection on the wall."Sheppard capped the canteen when he had finished drinking, helping him swing his legs over the side of the bed.

"Didn't much like the movie, though." the Major added dryly. He looked up at the tone – there was a decided edge to it. Sheppard just flashed a half-grin, stowing the canteen.

"Where is that observer, anyway?" Ford wondered aloud.

As if in response, the wall slid up into the ceiling, exposing a long bright hallway.

"An invitation?" Teyla asked.

"I've had ones I liked better." John picked up his rifle and clipped it on. "You good to travel?" he queried of McKay. "I don't want to split up again."

He stood awkwardly, with Ford's help, then let the younger man's arm go and stretched. Apart from a bit of stiffness, he felt fine – no injury, no wound. "Let's look." he replied, picking up his own weapon and his scanner.

"Whoa-ho. Massive energy readings." He heard enthusiasm in his own voice. Sheppard did too, and he caught the relieved grin the Major threw at Ford. The few minutes walk down the corridor had helped. He was throwing off the horror of the induced nightmare, coming back to his old self again.

They moved cautiously down the corridor, but so far no dust, no breeze, no sign of the door behind them closing. And then a flicker ahead.

"The observer." Teyla mentioned, for his benefit. In response, he modified the scanner and made as many passes as he could, turning to them as they stopped.

"He's a projection."

"I knew that, McKay." Sheppard said.

"You don't understand. He's a solid projection. Look." He reached out and tried to lift the edge of the observer's robe. It didn't move, but he was grasping – something.

"Weird." Ford observed.

"Coherent light. Truly coherent. Matter from energy. Light years ahead of the hologram." he knew he was speaking quickly, as he was wont to do when excited, and Sheppard held up his hand.

"It talks." he said, cutting him off gently.

"It talks?"

"It talks." the observer said. "When given the opportunity to do so."

"Great. A smartass super-hologram." McKay muttered, and John waved his hand at him to shut up.

"You have passed all the tests. You are intuitive, determined, intelligent, loyal, and moral."

"You forgot clean and conscientious." Sheppard added. "Hey – I was a Boy Scout." he added in response to the glances.

The observer waited for silence before speaking again.

"We wish to give you a gift."

The door in front of them opened, and banks and banks of dark plinths were revealed. The observer led them to one, at the end, that still glowed with light.

"According to the stars, our culture has been dead for approximately five thousand years. In that time there have been four other species tested. None have passed."

"Yeah, well, you did make the exam really tough." Sheppard replied. "So?"

"In these banks lie our culture. Our science. We were wiped out by our own pride, but a few of us put everything we could into memory, and I was programmed to test those who visited. You have passed. Everything here is yours."

"Remarkable artificial intelligence." McKay observed. "You can respond to us?"

"I learn from you – behaviour, syntax. That is why I did not appear to your friends until after they had passed the first obstacles. I built up a language base from their conversations."

"And why did you pick on Rodney to torture?" Sheppard's voice was tight with anger, and McKay realized it had been building since he'd woken. The Major had, wisely, kept a lid on it until he could unleash it on the someone – something – that had caused it all.

"Torture?" the observer said mildly. "It was a test. Endurance, problem solving, determination. I chose him because you and the other male were obviously trained in armed forces. I knew from DNA that the female was not of the same stock as you. The choice was obvious."

"It was torture, mental and physical." Sheppard was getting wound up. "You took everything from him and left him to believe we were dead. You inflicted pain on him to have him respond in a manner you desired. You killed him, in his mind, and for a human what happens in the mind is just as powerful as what happens to the body." He was truly furious now. "And you have the gall to show us these boxes and tell us, SO smugly, that we've been good little mice and now here's our cheese, and be grateful?"

The observer was speechless, processing the information.

"Oh, that's good AI." McKay whispered again, taking readings.

"I needed one subject for the immersion, the others to prove teamwork and empathy." it said finally. "It was only a test."

Sheppard'd had his say, though, and was silent. Ford stepped in.

"If you're such a sophisticated program, try and see it from our side. We had no idea what you were doing to him. We had each other, at least."

It was interesting to watch the observer. The plinth behind them glowed fiercely for a few moments, and the expression actually moved from satisfaction through anger, sorrow and finally to contrition.

"There must be cameras or something everywhere." McKay said excitedly, and Teyla smiled fondly at him. "Look at what he's learned from you – from us – in just a few hours. I wonder how much memory was assigned. How did they avoid the insanity issue? Unless he only came on when the gate was activated…"

He stopped talking again, when Teyla touched his arm. It was the one that had been wounded, in the simulation, and he jerked automatically, anticipating the pain…Sheppard was watching him, eyes sad.

"Do you see?" he said quietly to the observer. "Real or not, he has to live with the memories."

The observer nodded slowly. "I understand." it replied. "I am sorry." It stared at Sheppard. "We would still like to offer the gift."

Sheppard looked at Ford, Teyla, and finally McKay – who's kid-in-a-candy-store expression had reached his eyes, pushing out the weary pain and replacing it with the joy of discovery.

"We accept." he said finally.

The observer smiled.

"We will need to marshal our resources, though. And there are many plans to make."

"When you return, I will be here." With that, the observer flickered out.

They turned again, heading back to the main room. He lagged behind, working his PDA rapidly. "Lists, lists. How much data?" he muttered to himself. "Who can we spare – no one, but we can't pass this up…"

Concentrating, he didn't register John's proximity until a strong arm wrapped itself around his shoulders. It threw him back to the first moment he'd thought his friends were ghosts, and he looked up, expression – had he known it – full of wonder and affection. John grinned at him warmly, gave him a half-hug, and released him.

"Come on." he said. "Let's see if we can get Kavanaugh assigned here."

The Major headed up the hall and he ran to catch up.

"Or not." McKay said. "That thing learns from its observations. You really want another Kavanaugh?"

"Gah." John said. "Good point. Come on."

And the jumper, that had once seemed a bit crowded and claustrophobic to him, just seemed to be perfect.


End file.
